


Waiting For You

by LiteratiAngel92



Category: Blackpool | Viva Blackpool (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:49:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28832961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiteratiAngel92/pseuds/LiteratiAngel92
Summary: "He had always wondered what it would be like to love someone so suddenly and completely, and now, here is his answer; it feels broken, shattered." Peter wonders what it's like to fall in love. Natalie shows him. It might break them both. PeterNatalie relationship from Peter's POV.
Relationships: Peter Carlisle/Natalie Holden





	Waiting For You

_If you were here beside me, instead of in New York,  
_ _If the curve of you was curved on me.  
_ _I'd tell you that I loved you, before I even knew you,  
_ ' _Cause I loved the simple thought of you…_

_If you were here beside me, instead of in New York,  
_ _In the arms you said you'd never leave.  
_ _I'd tell you that it's simple and it was only ever thus,  
_ _There's nowhere else that I belong._

_**New York – Snow Patrol** _

**...**

He always wondered what it would be like to love someone so suddenly and completely. Sitting there, across from a total stranger – a woman who he needed to charm and manipulate, and who represented nothing more than the chance to get some more information on the case and its chief suspect – he felt a jolt of something akin to realisation. She isn't what he expected, this ordinary woman in her shapeless jumper and faded jeans. Her prime is ostensibly behind her, the shine of her beauty dulled by the painful monotony of her unfulfilling life, and yet she's far more vibrant in that one conversation than he has seen in any woman before.

He hadn't lied to Blythe when he said that he was good with wives. He has always been the favourite for coaxing key information from unsuspecting women; women who find themselves giggling uncharacteristically at his jokes, and fluttering their eyelashes when he looks them up and down in _just_ the right way. In truth, it's made him a bit cynical; that obvious vapidity that he has come to associate with women like her. He kicks himself inwardly for mistakenly believing that she would be like every other stereotypical 'trophy wife'. He isn't completely off the mark with her; she is unloved, of that he is sure. What he can't fathom, though, is _why_.

He considers later on, with the benefit of hindsight no longer clouded with the perfume of her, that it might have been the unpredictability of her responses that intrigued him. Whatever it was, somewhere in the midst of that poky beige Samaritans counselling room, he decided that whatever it took, he would contrive a second meeting with her.

He sees himself as suave and confident, smoothly inserting himself into her life, stringing out the lie a little more until she is totally enthralled. The reality is a far cry from the fantasy, though, and he finds himself stumbling through his carefully practiced motions, making rookie mistakes and betraying himself in ways he hasn't even had space to unpick yet. Somehow, although he feels her slipping through his fingers, he can't quite stop himself from trying again and again until suddenly, he finds that despite himself, he has tempted her and he can't believe his luck.

Still, their arranged meeting arrives and he is unsure. Unsure of whether she will come. Unsure of whether he wants her to. Unsure of what it will mean for him if she does.

He's aware of his own flaws, really. He knows that he isn't squeaky clean, that there has always been a small streak of anarchy and seediness to how he conducts himself at work, _and yet…_ He has always been sure that he was honest (as far as each situation allowed), and that he only ever bent the rules a little, never outright breaking them. He didn't _think_ that this would be the exception to that, but something deep in the back of his mind told him that he might be just a little bit wrong this time.

He finds himself sitting opposite her again, except this time there is something palpable between them that is more than just unfamiliarity and an awkward first meeting. The curtains across the main stage draw back, lights flashing brightly as a gaudily dressed drag queen takes the mic. He doesn't feel the need to turn to take in the performance, though, and sluggishly, he realises that she hasn't turned away either.

The feeling that hits him is less like a firework, and more like a ton of bricks. The ferocity of it shocks him, turning his insides out and, for once in his life of wit and charm, he is lost for words…or at least, the carefully chosen ones. Honesty is all that remains.

' _I feel like I've been waiting for you. For this.'_

He acknowledges when she tells him that it's insane – _I know. I know!_ – but that was it for him. That woman, that moment. Nothing else mattered; not the case, not his duty, not the truth. Just her, and him, and a shimmering chance at happiness.

From then on, he feels himself pushing his luck, but only with her permission. He may be tempting her, but he would only let it happen from the moment she said yes; their hands sliding together easily, as if they were young and carefree, as if there was no murder case, no lies, and no husband in the picture. When he asks her if he can kiss her, her softly unspoken hesitation is like a knife in the back, soothed only with the slight, almost imperceptible nod of her head. He can't stop himself – no holding back – his hands, slipping into her windswept hair, his lips finding hers in a blind panic that this might be his only chance to feel her body pulled flush against his. He forgets to be cautious of prying eyes, forgets his original purpose for being with her. All he wants is to kiss her, to lose himself in her lips, her breath, her skin, her perfume.

For once, after she runs away from his arms, he listens to someone else's needs. She calls and he picks up eagerly, wanting so desperately – terrifyingly – to hear her voice again, and he hears himself agreeing to do it all over again. Once he hangs up, though, he finds himself thudding back to reality, surrounded by crime scene photographs and mugshots of her family's smiling faces…and he remembers. The decision not to meet her again tears him apart, but worse than that is the hurt visible on her face when she confronts him in the doorway of his hotel room; the notion that this is just a _nice little fantasy_ , and that he must've known that all along makes the pain so much worse, and makes it all the more difficult to fight the urge catch her up in his arms and crush her against him.

Only when he thinks that his luck has run out – when they run into each other at her husband's arcade, and he finally allows himself to allude to the fact that he loves her, so desperately – does he finally allow himself to hope that she might feel something like the same way towards him. When he finally makes love to her, it is hurried and impatient; hungry. Next time, he knows that he will be slower, gentler, that he will take the time to get to know every inch of her, to learn everything about her. This time, however, he is a glutton for her; gorging himself on her scent, her kisses, her fingers in his hair, the way she pants out his name. On the way she tells him that she wants him, loves him; that she is his, only his.

He finds himself making excuses to get away from work to be with her. She picks up the phone, and he comes running; desperate to be what she wants, whenever she wants it. Their second time together is much more intimate, and he feels like they are the only two people in the world, swept up in the fever of their tangled limbs and shared affection. Later, as they sit together in the soft warmth of the bathwater, he asks about her family, her children. He wants to know what makes her tick when she is away from him, to understand how she has come to be the woman before him. When she mentions her husband, though, their pretty little fantasy bubble pops suddenly, and his primal instincts kick in, betraying just how emotionally invested he really is in their affair.

Nothing lasts, though. He knows that he will eventually be caught in the lie that has brought him here, and yet he can't help but wonder if there's just the slightest hope that she might love him enough to stay. When the confrontation comes, it's like a knife to his heart. _No, you are_ _not_ _my lover!_ His protestations fall on deaf ears as she rails at him, not giving him an inch, and refusing to listen to his explanations, his proclamations, his excuses. Deep down, he knows that there aren't any. Not really.

She tells him that they'll get over it. He doesn't believe her; nor does he want to.

And so he doesn't. He wallows. In self-pity, in hurt, in love, in despair; in _her_. In desperation, he waits for her outside Samaritans, the balls of his feet itching to turn and run away, but his heart holding steadfast to the slimmest of chances that she might forgive him, that she might love him as he loves her. Once again, his carefully chosen words fail him, and he begins to spout facts, until he realises that she is looking for an out and he finally forces himself to say the three most important words. The words that he means wholeheartedly, and has been dancing around ever since they met.

When she rejects him again, he knows that he should give up. Yet he _wants_. He wants so much, so badly, so hard that it hurts. The list of things they would never do seems endless and yet somehow unfinished. There is no suave, considered ending to his speech, and he thinks that the quip about the fish supper might have pushed her too far, but the second that the corners of her mouth begin to turn up into a smile, he just knows. And there she is, in his arms again where she belongs. Her home, if only he can convince her to stay there.

The waiting feels interminable, but when she appears at his door, he feels free; ecstatic. And then it breaks. _She_ breaks it. Him. His mind flashes suddenly back to that tiny table for two in Funny Girls, the moment when his mask first slipped and his calculations stopped. He had always wondered what it would be like to love someone so suddenly and completely, and now, here is his answer; it feels broken, shattered. That sheer unencumbered joy of lightning-bolt love, and the swift, twisting steel knife of it ending. He wants nothing more than to hurt her as much as she is hurting him and, as if from miles away, he hears himself telling her the worst lie imaginable.

' _Can't we at least, what? What? What, tell you it doesn't matter? Well, it does… Or, at least it would matter if I hadn't slept with you all along just to get to Ripley and your son.'_

He watches her heart break. It should make him feel better. It doesn't. He can't even look at her.

The chance to nail her husband for the murder that he has been so intent on fitting him up for should make him feel better. It doesn't. Much though he wants to hate her, he just can't quite bring himself to do it, and every instinct tells him simply to run; run far away from Blackpool, from his duty, from her and her life. He doesn't, although it takes every ounce of strength he can muster.

A deal with the Devil seems too good to be true, but he can't help but agree that she corrupted him long before this cosy little chat with her husband. It wouldn't exactly sit _right_ with him – he knew that – but he also knew that he could live with that if it meant that he could have her. Just one more chance; cards on the table one last time. _I look at you and I just feel… Well, it feels like I've been missing somebody all of my life, and it's you… Strip away all the pretence, all the play acting, all the…cops and robbers, what's left? Eh? You loving me, and me loving you._ It's not enough at the time.

He doesn't know what it is that changes her mind, but he finds he doesn't care. It's one thing that he's ok with not knowing about her because the elation when she comes back to him is incomparable. He kisses her like he can't catch his breath. She kisses him back; his heart swells. _This_ is what it feels like to love someone suddenly, completely. Forever.


End file.
